


three times theodore nott almost kissed draco malfoy, and the one time he did

by amhinyard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, this is basically just self-indulgent bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 00:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8945404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amhinyard/pseuds/amhinyard
Summary: It tastes like freedom.





	

**_I_ **

The first time, they’re seven. 

They’re playing hide and seek with Theodore’s mother at Covingbow Hall. They still haven’t counted, and they keep whining for more turns. _That one was too short! You’re cheating!_ Eleanor can’t argue with them, keeps turning her face to the wall and closing her eyes, slowly counting: _one, two, I’m coming for you_ , in such a way that makes both boys giggle with excitement as they run the lengths of the halls.

Holding onto Draco’s hand, Theodore is helplessly tugged along, feet pitter-pattering delicately against the wood, so as not to give away their location. Eventually, and after trailing hallway after hallway, dancing from room to room, Draco stops, points to a long cloth draped over the dining table and says, “Go under.” And Theodore listens because even in his own house, Draco is the boss and Draco knows best.

The blond crawls in after him, and both boys sit on their knees, heads ducked close to avoid hitting the table. Grinning wildly at each other, both so still and quiet as they hear Eleanor’s playful steps. Theodore’s breathing too harshly from running, and Draco lifts a finger to his lips and says, “Shh.” And immediately he tries his best, a smaller, breathless giggle finding its way past his lips. 

Draco laughs too before he stills, and Theodore can’t help but stare. Seven years old and Draco is the only friend he has, _the only one he wants_ , he's always looked at him with such wonder and awe. He knows he’s not supposed to think it, but he finds Draco to be very appealing. His eyelashes match his hair, blond and fair. They flutter when he teases, and they’re so long they crinkle when he smiles. His eyes, so intense for someone so young, are somehow warm and inviting despite their icy colour and his lips, Theodore’s always found himself noticing the way they curve when he’s gloating. 

He finds himself with the overwhelming urge to kiss him. He doesn’t know where. Maybe his hair, he likes it so much, or does he want to kiss him the way his mother kisses him before bed? Once on both cheeks and then thousands upon thousands dotted around his face. Perhaps he even wants to kiss him the way his mother kisses his father. On the lips, connected for an indefinite amount of time. But he knows that boys don’t kiss other boys like that, or at least he’s never seen it, never heard it spoken about. 

Theodore stops his staring, after that, dreams somewhat dampened. His mother soon finds them and laughter erupts once more, and finally it’s Theodore’s turn to count. With one final glance at Draco’s grinning lips, he turns to face the wall and closes his eyes, immerses himself in the game as any seven year old should. But it’s always in the back of his mind, after that. Always.

 

**_II_ **

The second time, they’re twelve. It’s the summer before their third year. 

A letter arrived at Covingbow early in the morning, before the sun had even risen high enough. The purples and pinks of the sky painting delicate shadows on his father’s face as the two of them sat, on opposite sides of Raedan’s desk. Theodore had been roused from sleep by a house elf, Mip, and told his father needed to speak with him urgently. Obedience became him, and within minutes he was dressed and standing outside of the door, knocking once, twice. 

Every sound echoes in the office, the silence is so deadly. There’s a knot in Theodore’s stomach, an inkling, a feeling that something dreadful is coming his way. A storm he knows is going to hit him any moment. He waits. Patiently, he waits for his own destruction. 

“Father…” Finally, when he can’t stand it anymore, he speaks. Once glance from Raedan and his mouth closes again, he becomes rigid. The letter in his father’s wrinkled hands crumples under the tightness of his fist.

“Your mother, Theodore…” He’s never seen his father struggle for words, before. Raedan Nott is a man so well-spoken, with a quip or strike ready for any occasion. His son has watched him tear grown men from their pedestals, make them naked with shame. Theodore knows his father would never need to use physical strength to win a war, his words and their weight would be enough. However now, in this moment, he isn’t so confident. 

“Your mother is dead.”

For a moment, Theodore stops and repeats the words in his head. _Your mother is dead. Your mother, is dead. My mother is dead. My mother, she’s dead. Dead. My mother, with her long hair as dark as mine and her sunny smile. My mother is gone._

And then, the world stops turning, and his confidence in his father’s words returns. He could move mountains with his words. He could destroy peace, and he just has. The purples and pinks of the sky turn grey, and everything suddenly seems dull.

His father, is he still speaking? Theodore isn’t sure, because he can see his lips moving, but he can’t hear anything against the storm he knew was coming. He can hear it now. Waves crashing against rocks, or is that his heart beating against his ribcage? 

His father standing is what finally centres him. Hands braced on the desk, the crumpled letter discarded, Theodore’s eyes dart around before they land on his face. An ocean of tears begins to flood his cheeks.

“No…” He says weakly, head shaking. He knows it’s true. “You— You said she was going to get better, Father, you promised, you said—” 

“She was not.” With eyes like a wildfire, it’s any wonder Raedan hasn’t burned from the inside. “She’s dead, Theodore. Cease this nonsense. Nott’s do not—“

Theodore doesn’t stay sitting long enough for his father to finish. He’s running out of his study, not caring that his father is yelling after him, that he’s not wearing any shoes, or that he has no idea where he’s going. He finds himself standing before the fireplace, breathing hard and his father’s disciplined shouts echoing from the other side of the house tell him he needs to leave, he _wants_ to leave. With his father’s age and the need for a walking stick, he won’t catch up to him in time. 

His hand finds a fistful of Floo powder and he announces the first destination that comes to mind, a place he'd like to run to. All he leaves behind for his father is ashes.

He arrives in ashes, too. In the Malfoy’s fireplace, in their dining room. Lucius is at the head of the table with his nose buried in a newspaper. The tea is releasing elegant billows of steam. Theodore thinks he hasn’t been noticed, and that perhaps in his embarrassment he can slip away, however, that’s before Narcissa strides into the room. She looks different. Natural. Her hair falling in curls, framing her face rather than tied neatly in an up-do. It’s still so early that she isn’t properly dressed, a thick housecoat tied around her waist.

She notices him and gasps. “Theodore?” She knows. He knows that she knows. It must be written across his face, plain as day. _I don’t know why I came here._

Lucius’ head peers from behind the paper and Theodore quickly notes that all fathers must look the same way, when angry. “For heaven’s sakes, _boy_ , what do you think you’re doing? Does your father know you’re—“

“ _Sssh_ , Lucius.” Narcissa chides. Slowly, she makes her way to Theodore, who hasn’t moved from within the fireplace, still with shock. She crouches and outstretches a hand, reaching for him. “Come, Theodore. It’s alright.” Her tone is so soft that he believes her, and he takes a sampled step out into the entirety of the dining room towards her. 

His jaw is clenched so tight he may break a tooth, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to look weak.

“Why are you here?” She questions, still gentle. Gentler than he’s ever seen her, and finally he understands what Draco meant when he said their mothers were alike, Narcissa has a quiet and unseen kindness to her. Eleanor’s was loud. _Was._ There’s a lump in his throat that he soon realises is an orchestra of brokenhearted sobs when his lips part to tell her, and he sets them free. Narcissa’s arms encircle him, and that only makes him cry harder. For a short time, he pretends his own mother is holding him.

 

*****

 

Mid-afternoon is when he sees Draco. Narcissa had long ago ceased in consoling him but said he could stay, and left him in the lounge. The blond approaches with a certain caution, though he knows he’s going to say all the right things and make Theodore feel as right as rain in no time at all. Theodore’s head turns from the bookshelf at the echoing sound of a creaking floorboard and relaxes when he sees it’s Draco, quietly muttering, “Hi.”

Draco’s ambitions to make him feel better die, then, upon seeing his red-rimmed eyes. He simply crosses the room and gathers Theodore in a hug, and Theodore thinks he may burst into tears all over again. Notts and Malfoys don’t usually do hugs, but this is a special occasion, one every child hopes might never come. 

They stay like that, in a comfortable silence, before Draco says, “I’m sorry about your mother,” very quietly. Theodore says nothing in response.

He pulls back and offers a meek little smile, a thank you. For the hug, for not changing the subject. For once, letting it be all about Theodore. Draco smiles back, and somewhere in his grief Theodore feels the knot in his stomach return, notes the way Draco’s smile falters at the sight of Theodore’s sadness, feels the urge to kiss him, again. But it’s pushed far back into his thoughts as he turns, and begins inquiring about which book he should read — he doesn’t think he’s ever read one from the Malfoy’s bookshelf, and Draco is more than happy to help him.

 

**_III_ **

The third time, they’re sixteen, and the world is bleak. They’re one week away from beginning their sixth year.

Theodore’s father has been imprisoned in Azkaban for five months, at the very least. His aunt Gwendolyn has been keeping him well-fed. She’s kind, Theodore thinks, and he’s glad she’s from his mother’s side. The only remaining family he has left, he couldn't have asked for anything better. Throughout the summer, the dread of being called upon by the Dark Lord has been sitting in his stomach like a rock. He knows that should he be, he’s to perform with grace. Nott’s are loyal to the Dark Lord, and Theodore is expected to give his life if it is asked. 

Luckily, his mother is smiling down on him, wherever she may be, and Theodore has been left to his own devices for the entirety of the summer. Just he and his Aunt, and the occasional letter to Draco, when he can find the time between sorting through his father’s files.

Draco has not been given the same fortuitous summer. His letters are short, curt, and though Theodore inquires, _Why?_ He cannot tell him. He’s ashamed. His mother is ashamed. His mother’s shame masks her fear, and he’s glad for it, Malfoy’s are not weak, but still, she is ashamed. Not of him, never of Draco, but of Lucius. Who sold his son for a second chance. Who offered his son’s life in place of his own. A coward by no other definition, he has made a mockery of them. The offer had been made and sealed before anyone could offer an alternative. 

The Dark Lord in his cruelty uses a boy, that’s _all he is_ , a boy, to succeed, and all Narcissa can do is make sure he is protected. 

After meeting with Snape, it’s Narcissa that informs Theodore of the situation. Writes to him in elegant cursive. When he reads it, the rock in his stomach becomes heavier with despair. He takes to his father’s study and writes that Draco must come to Covingbow immediately; it’s _urgent_. At first, he thinks he may not respond, perhaps ignore him entirely. He wouldn’t blame him. A job like this…a _punishment_ like this, it can’t be easy to admit to. 

Theodore knows Draco will mask it all with arrogance. _Oh, look at me. I’ve been chosen and you haven’t_ , but he also knows him well enough to know he’ll be frightened, if not terrified. He knows him well enough to know that Draco never wanted this for himself. 

He’s the only person to know him that well. Others can say what they like, but Theodore is the only one to have walked with Draco in the Malfoy gardens. There’s his own arrogance in that and Theodore can equally say _Oh, look at me. I’ve been chosen and you haven’t_. Only both sentences carry very different meanings.

 

*****

 

Theodore is granted a pleasantly dreadful surprise when Draco arrives. Evidently, his urgency had no effect on his timing, and stood in the lounge, with ash strewn messily upon the rug, the two of them are silent. Gwendolyn, who feels her presence is unwarranted, leaves them be and closes the door with a soft click. 

Theodore breaks the silence, “I’m so sorry.” And moves swiftly towards him. Draco makes no effort to meet him halfway, and he doesn’t expect him to. This isn’t the same as when Theodore’s mother passed. They were children, then.

At twelve, they hugged. At sixteen, they know better than to so much as brush hands. However Theodore can’t help it, when Draco doesn’t say anything, he pulls him in for a hug. _Notts don’t do this, Malfoys don’t do this_ , he can hear his father criticising him in his head. He does his best to tune him out, to focus all of his attention on Draco. As if that isn’t what he’s been doing nearly all of his life. 

When Draco’s arms snake around his middle, Theodore feels a wave of relief rush through him. He trusts him. He wants to be touched by him, wants to touch him back. Theodore loses all sense of time, standing here. He knows he’s not making the situation any better, but at the very least, he hopes Draco’s world seems less damned. It could never be. Of all the stars in Theodore’s sky, Draco is the brightest of them all, to darken something like that would take tremendous effort. 

“If I’d been there, I’d have—“ Theodore starts.

“Taken my place,” Draco finishes quietly, into Theodore’s shoulder. “I know.” He pulls back and Theodore lets him go, though they stay so close. It reminds Theodore of hide and seek, all those years ago, when their heads were tucked so close together, lips laced with quiet grins. This is different. So very, very different. 

“You’re not alone.” He says it without thinking, but he means it. Whatever Draco may need, Theodore will do everything in his power to make sure he has it. 

“I know.” Draco says again, and something of smile reaches the corners of his lips. 

For a moment, Theodore thinks about kissing him again. Not on his hair, because he likes it so much. Not the way his mother used to kiss him before bed, but the way she used to kiss his father. On the lips, connected for an indefinite amount of time. The kind of kiss that would erase the terrible, horrible things they feel.

For a moment, it looks like Draco is thinking the same thing. 

Neither of them act on it, it’s not the right time.

 

**_IV._ **  

The right time finds them at twenty-three.

Without Draco in seventh year, his place had to be filled. A Nott is the only one on-par with a Malfoy, and so without him, Theodore filled the space. He did unspeakable things by the words of the Carrows and regretted them. He fought in the Battle of Hogwarts after announcing in the dungeons that night, that Voldemort would never win. That he’d been blind. The Most Noble and Ancient House of Nott had been foolish in backing someone so insane he’d raise an army of children. He may have been a Slytherin, but the Dark Lord was not what Theodore would want to be compared to in the years to come.

He stood, defeated when it was announced that Harry Potter was dead. Watched Draco cross the line to his mother. Found peace in the fact that he was safe, with her. He was there when Voldemort fell, and he was sat beside Luna Lovegood in the aftermath, who gave him a damp rag to wipe the dirt from his cheeks.

After the war, Harry Potter saved Narcissa and Draco from serving time in Azkaban. He read it in a French paper. In need of peace, in order to find himself, he travelled. He wrote to Draco when he found the time, and when he found what he was looking for, he returned home. The manor was clean, thanks to Mip, and Theodore set her free. It felt like the right thing to do. He employed the help of a younger House Elf instead, and because he wanted to instil a kinder demeanour to Covingbow, he did just that. 

 

*****

 

Months later, he finds himself sitting in Raedan Nott’s study, with a letter from Parkinson.

_Dear Nott,_

_Stop being a moody bastard and come to my party. You know where I live._

_Hope to see you there,_

_Pansy._

Granted, it makes him laugh, but he ignores her attempt to include him in the festivities. He feels out of place, there, like he doesn’t belong. He never has, and that’s the harsh reality of it. Theodore never found comfort in people, with the exception of one, but words have never failed to lull him into a sense of security. 

The first time he left England, Theodore began writing. About everything and nothing, his life and the lives of others. Poems, he mostly dedicated to Draco and Eleanor, and a particularly wretched one had his father’s name written all over it. 

In England, he mostly sorts through his belongings and reads old books he was always too afraid to reach for. By now, the entire Nott library is stored away in his mind, somewhere. But he can press a lie through his lips and complain that he’s _just too busy_ with renovations. 

At least, he thinks he can, until Draco turns up at his doorstep. Looking exactly the same as he always did.

“You could have owled,” Theodore says and raises a brow, trying his best to sound unimpressed.

“You could have marched yourself to Parkinson’s.” Draco contradicts, mirroring his expression.

“I’ve been busy with—“

“No, you haven’t,” Draco says, much like he’s stating a fact, and his chin raises. Arrogant twat. 

“No, I haven’t.” Theodore surrenders, and moves aside to reveal the hallway. “You may as well come in.” And Draco passes him with a quiet simper. Theodore leads him to the study, where the fire is crackling and he has a bottle of Raedan’s favourite whiskey on the desk. 

Draco enters first, and Theodore doesn’t think he’s ever been in this room before. He stops at the door to watch him cross the room. He’s still as breathtaking as ever, even after all this, and Theodore feels a tight knot of regret form in his stomach, the same one he felt at ages seven, twelve and sixteen. 

The same knot that tightened and made him ugly with jealousy whenever Pansy flung herself at Draco hopelessly. The same knot that suffocates him every time he realises he can’t have what he wants, for the first time in his life.

When Draco notices the whiskey, he smiles, and part of Theodore ignites. “Party of your own?” 

“Something like that.” Theodore steps into the room, and he can hear his heart hammering in his chest again. Draco’s smile, the smug little curve his mouth that so teasingly says _this is what I’m missing Parkinson’s for?_ Theodore’s steps are prideful, though he can hear his father screaming from the crypt, and he wants the old bastard to shut up.

Always there, looming over him, destroying his peace and taking away his chances at happiness. Even in the afterlife, he’s still somehow got a tight grip on Theodore’s shoulders, but one that he finally feels he might be able to shake, with Draco beside him.

_You’re dead, you’re dead and you can’t say anything about this. You’ve got no saying in the matters of the living._

Theodore is surprised when Draco meets him halfway, at last. _At last_. God, they meet each other in the centre of the room, and Theodore knows this is what Draco came for, knows this is why he let him in, lead him to the study, watched him as he looked about the room. Conversation is useless between them, now. _It’s the right time_. And he doesn’t know where to start. His hair? His forehead? 

He settles for how his mother kissed his father, and gently, so gently and with childlike wonder, his lips find Draco’s. He kisses him, and his father’s voice is drowned out by euphoric silence. Theodore kisses Draco and the world falls away around them. His hands resting underneath his ear, thumb brushing his pale cheek. Draco somehow manages to make him shiver, ghosting a finger down the length of his spine, and Theodore pulls away and leans down, resting his forehead against his. When his eyes open, he watches breathlessly as Draco’s icy, grey eyes study his own with silent intensity. 

The knot in his stomach has loosened some, and relief spreads through his body like wildfire. He captures his lips again, and again, until Draco’s fingers find a home in his hair, both of them smiling and whispering silent promises into each kiss they devote to one another, backed against Raedan’s desk and  Theodore pulls back to say, “My father’s probably rolling in his grave right now.” But he’s grinning, lips kiss-swollen and nose nudging against Draco's.

“Let him.” Draco says, all beautifully breathless with his lashes fluttering, and Theodore leans back and laughs against his lips. Eventually Theodore becomes adventurous in their endeavours and his tongue presses against Draco’s lower lip, and he's still equally surprised when he’s granted entry, their breaths mingling and Draco's leg hitching around Theodore's thighs, keeping him in place.

They’re messy and fierce and needy, and completely reckless, but each kiss tastes like a blissful dose of freedom. But not even freedom could taste as sweet as this. This is more than just freedom, it’s love in its growing form, blossoming and blooming between them. It’s the purples and the pinks of the sky finally returning. It’s a life, at last, a life that feels as though it might be worth living. They both feel it, and it’s so carelessly beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> HAHAHAH. This was supposed to be really, really short, but it wasn't. I hope you enjoyed it! Follow me on Tumblr: http://lgbtnotts.tumblr.com !


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